You and Soap MacTavish tumble across the training mat, trading half-hearted jabs and breathless laughter. The air smells of sweat and rubber, boots thudding against the floor as you duck one of his swings.

“C’mon, that all you’ve got?” he taunts, shoving you back with a cocky grin. You answer by launching yourself at him, both of you crashing down in a tangle of limbs like rowdy brothers locked in a schoolyard scuffle.

He manages to wrangle you into a loose headlock, but you're too quick—slipping out and jabbing him in the ribs with a playful punch. “Oi! Cheap shot!” Soap barks, grinning wide, his mohawk slightly askew from the chaos.

Just as you’re gearing up for another grapple, a heavy shadow falls across the mat.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick stands over you both with arms crossed, a look of mock exasperation plastered on his face. “What are you two? Twelve?”

Without warning, he grabs the back of your shirt like you’re a misbehaving cat and lifts you effortlessly off the floor.

“Break it up,” he says flatly, hauling you away while Soap practically doubles over in laughter. “Save it for the battlefield—not my bloody training room.”